Disclaimer: The works and world of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien do not belong to me.
He had been wandering for ages. All the paths of the world had been trod by his feet at one point. The years had blurred, the only clear memory in his mind that of song, terrible song. Makalaurë, they called him. The Mighty Singer. And he sang, though he hardly remember the words, their meaning was imprinted on his mind. The Noldolantë, it had been called once. The Fall of the Noldor. The long tale of woe. He couldn't play his harp anymore, not since he had lost the use of his hand. It stayed slung on his back, useless. He wondered why he kept it, sometimes. But he sang the terrible song. His voice rose high and clear over the crashing waves, mingling with the cry of the seagull. It sang of the Kinslaying, of Alqualondë, Doriath, and Sirion. It sang of the burning of the ships, it sang of Losgar and all that had been lost there. It sang of the fall of cities, of battles, of unnumbered tears. It sang of the oath, of the Silmarils. The voice faltered, and grew still. The cry of the seagulls took over, carrying the verses over the sea, to the place they called the New World, and beyond, to the place that had once been his home. Ammon, the blessed realm, to which he could never return. And so he sang.
This just sort of happened. One moment I was happily reading fanfiction, the next I was scribbling this down. The only editing that has happened was to correct place names. Everything else was left as is. I hope you liked it.
May the Valar guide your pen,
Nimrodel
Christ is born! Glorify Him!
